Quarantine Zone
by High Prophet
Summary: Mere hours after the horrors on Installation 04, a Covenant asteroid colony falls under attack by the dreaded parasite: The Flood. Will Master Chief help them or let them die? R&R!


**CHAPTER ONE**

The dark Council chamber could only be described as dismal as the Covenant leadership on the asteroid colony Wisdom sat down for their first abrupt mandatory emergency meeting since the planetoid's settling. High-ranking Elites from every social class occupied the grandiose chamber, from politicians to Fleet Commanders to Spec Ops commanders.

A low muttering echoed off the shimmering purple-blue walls as the Covenant warriors considered why the impromptu Council meeting had been thrown in the first place. It never happened. The Prophet ruling over Wisdom was very stern when it came to structure, and he believed that if one rule was broken or twisted to one's whim, the entire Covenant would fall.

Silence suddenly descended on the room as the Holy Prophet hovered into the room on his bulbous chair, floating roughly five feet above the ground. Two Honor Guards flanked him, the only armed beings in the entire room. Ursèe 'Fortalamee rose from his seat. He was a very average-looking Elite, the only thing giving away his status in the hierarchy being his golden armour. He looked around the amphitheater-like chamber and cleared his throat before announcing:

"The High Council of the Covenant colony Wisdom will come to order."

He sat again, and crossed his arms, frowning as only Elites could. He was extremely loyal to the Covenant, and trusted in the care the Prophets provided, but what was going on? Some of his ancestor's legendary pride simmered within, and he resented being left in the dark.

"Thank you, young one," the Prophet nodded at him, and Ursèe rose the area of flesh where his eyebrows would be, had he possessed any. _Young_? Had he just been called _young_? He hadn't heard that since his youth, training in the military camps on High Charity.

The Prophet, unaware of his thoughts, ploughed on with his announcement. "You are undoubtedly all wondering why you were called here today" – Mass agreement communicated by mumbles – "and I will gladly tell you why you were gathered several units before the annual meeting.

My friends, we are in grave danger."

Suddenly the council was in an uneasy silence. Ursèe himself immediately envisioned the Demon in his mind. The Demon was the only human he feared—that armor-clad supersoldier with the icy glare and limitless strength. But the Prophet quickly quelled that thought by sending Ursèe's mind to hell.

"The Flood has seemingly broken free of the prison Halo provided, and a large gathering of the parasites are coming to these colonies."

No more was the restless silence of the council. Yelling and shouting and general panic broke out as the Covenant realised what this implied: the safety the Holy Ones had blessed them with was gone, and now they were all in immediate danger. Urseè himself, despite his duty to keep the council in order, sat stunned in his chair, unwilling to believe that the same terror that killed his entire family on Halo was now about to be on his doorstep.

"This council will come to _order_!" An Honor Guard yelled over the raucous chaos.

One bold Elite, clad in the simple blue of an average soldier, pointed venomously at the Prophet and bellowed, "You told us that those…those _beasts _had been contained by the strike team from the Truth and Reconciliation! You lied to us."

The Prophet regarded him with disapproval, and nodded to an Honor Guard. Urseè knew what was coming. The heavily adorned Elite lifted a Brute plasma rifle and fired nearly a dozen times – it was far too fast a movement for Urseè to count. Whatever the number of shots, the Elite whom had dared to challenge a Holy Prophet slumped to the ground, his purple blood spilling all over the feet of a comrade nearby, who cringed.

The desired effect was achieved. The council fell into a tense wariness, and stared at the Prophet—the floating Covenant holy being cleared his throat and looked all around the room.

"This outbreak is being taken very seriously by the Prophets on High Charity. They are sending a strike team to assist us in disposing of the Flood.

But bear in mind, they will touch down on this asteroid before any assistance arrives. We will be on our own."

Urseè was beginning to get annoyed. The Flood obviously had to reach Wisdom by spacecraft, and the Covenant armada was the best in the universe. Surely they could shoot down one ship?

He stood. "Holy Prophet, I suggest respectfully that we call our space fleet back from the war against the humans for a brief time to destroy the ship that is carrying the parasites. We can easily stop them from reaching us—"

"I disagree," the Prophet cut him off smoothly. "That has been attempted, of course it was the _first _thing we tried upon learning of this. However, our Protection Fleet is engaged against a human fleet, and they will undoubtedly be occupied for hours. No, the Prophets have recommended that we arm ourselves and stop the spread of these beasts before they can go further." He turned away, and Urseè was forgotten as far as he was concerned. "Fleet Commanders, I suggest that you inform your crew and warriors to gear up and form strategic perimeters as according to whatever plan you see fit. Spec Ops commanders, ensure that your active camouflage is prepared and look for orders by the Fleet Commanders – they will place you in the proper areas. The rest of you, just do whatever you think would be best to protect yourselves and your brethren.

Remember, brothers, the gods are with us. We will not fail. Countless enemies have tried to destroy the Covenant, and they have failed. The Flood will be no different."

And with that inspiring speech, the frail little alien drifted away on his hover chair, followed by his two smug Honor Guards.

"_We're all going to die!_"

That was pretty much the general mood on the streets of the asteroid colony Wisdom. Emergency alarms blared and the pre-recorded reassurance speech by the Prophet was looped on the speakers surrounding the city — Grunts and Jackals formed the majority of those panicking, setting fires to vehicles and screaming at the top of their lungs.

Urseè was in a foul mood as he pushed and shot his way through the mobs. Without really meaning to, he killed several hapless Grunts in the process. Not that he cared; that was the last thing on his troubled mind.

He had always harbored a secret fear of the Flood, although it was not expected of such warriors as the Elites. The thought of those balloon-like Infection forms piercing his skin, taking over his body – and the recent discovery that, while the parasite controlled your physical body, you knew what was happening to you –

It was enough to drive him mad merely thinking about it.

Urseè jerkily lifted his wrist to his mouth in order to speak into his com-link. "Jajark. Meet me at the Holy Boulevard. Quickly. Bring the Ghost." Jajark was his Grunt assistant, whom was expected to carry all of the warrior's belongings and carry out his orders.

Urseè relaxed somewhat. Unlike most Grunts, Jajark had an uncanny sense of duty and courage, and had a great deal of logic. They were also, if he truly considered it, friends.

By the time he reached the daunting Holy Boulevard – a large city square where announcements were made and the Covenant citizens did their shopping and interacting – it was evening on the standard timekeeping unit, which stared out at the entire colony from the Tower of Sacred Fire. The mile-wide square was packed to breaking with panicked Covenant either trying to obtain firearms or get a ride on the next shuttle out of Wisdom.

He looked around angrily. By now, he had wounded a dozen Grunts on his way through the streets, and he was anxious to reach his home and gather his thoughts before the inevitable fight that the Flood would bring to them.

Where the _hell _was Jajark?

As if in answer to his mental self-inquiry, his com-link snapped on and Jajark's voice came through. He sounded distinctly like he was containing a panic of his own, and Urseè braced himself for the worst—

"Your Exellency, our Ghost was just hijacked."

Urseè quivered with contained rage for a moment, and then roared to the heavens, gaining several disturbed looks from the already upset Covenant in the Boulevard. What was going on? Were the Covenant going _mad_? Now he had no way of getting around quicky. He had been depending on his trusty custom Ghost to get out of tight spots and live to fight another day, if need be.

Gaining his calm, he snapped back on his end of the com-link and spoke into it. "Jajark. Where are you?"

The Grunt assistant replied promptly, and Urseè thanked the gods for that. "I am approximately three units east of the Tower of Sacred Fire."

Urseè was already walking in that direction. "Good. I'm meeting you there. I presume they didn't take our weapons?"

"No, Your Exellency. We still have two plasma pistols and a Carbine, along with fifteen plasma grenades. They took the energy sword."

Urseè barely contained a punch at the air which may have beheaded an innocent passerby. "Very well."

Thankfully, the trek from the Boulevard to the Tower was not very long, and he found Jajark resting with his back against the purple wall and holding a titanium case that he always used to store his prized weapons – one of which had been stolen by scum. He vowed to find them one day and extract vengeance, if he lived through the coming onslaught.

Pushing that from his troubled mind, he squatted next to Jajark and tapped the Grunt's head none-too-gently. The assistant jumped to his feet and hauled the cause over his shoulder – he nearly tipped over from the counterbalance the weight provided, but he managed to stay on his feet. Urseè nodded in approval at the Grunt's readiness.

"Good. My armor."

"Of course, your Exellency." Jajark knelt, opened the case, and extracted a full suit of shimmering silver armor nearly identical to that of a Fleet Commander's save for the color change of chrome rather than gold. Urseè slipped into the battle suit with practiced ease.

"Weapon."

"Most definitely, Your Excellency." A Carbine was placed in the Elite's hand.

"Now arm yourself."

Jajark didn't reply that time, instead choosing to gaze at the remaining weapons and contemplate which one was best for the situation. His hand hovered over one plasma pistol, but then he just grabbed both, opting for a dual-wield.

"Ready, sir."

Urseè replied by slamming a fresh clip of ammo into his weapon and holding it ready. "Then let's go. I know exactly where we can go to get the best vantage point."

Hours passed, and a sort of uneasy calm had settled over the entire colony. Every now and then, Urseè heard screams that caused him to shiver with unease.

Another scream pierced the air, and Urseè found himself swinging the Carbine in the direction of the noise. Jajark chortled through his methane mask.

"Feeling jumpy?"

Urseè felt his face warm with embarassment, and he was glad for the concealment of his helmet and mouthpiece. "I am simply vigilant, Jajark."

"Mmm." The Grunt hefted one plasma pistol, leaving the other lying on the ground. They were in a purple sentry tower that hovered thirty meters above the colony, level with the top of the Tower of Sacred Fire. There were several of them scattered around the city, but only high-ranking warriors had the IDs that passed their security computers and granted the user control of the craft. "How long ago did the Prophet tell you about the Flood again?"

Urseè checked his time unit. "Nearly thirty units. Why?"

Jajark regarded him, and then the clear starry sky. "I haven't seen anything. Maybe it was a false alarm."

The Elite turned 180 degrees with unsettling speed and glared at Jajark. "It is not your place to question the Prophets' wisdom. That is akin to heresy."

Jajark shrugged. He was known for his impudency, and although Urseè never failed to get angry at the Grunt for his comments regarding the policy of the Covenant, he was used to it. "I'm just saying. Perhaps they had a scare, and mistook a human craft for a Flood ship."

Urseè turned slowly back around and scanned the city with his alert eyes. "The Prophets don't make such mistakes, Jajark. Mark my words, we will be graced with the Flood's presence soon enough."

Silence fell between them again, and that was the moment that all hell broke loose.

A scream sounded again, and Urseè chose this time not to even glance in the direction. It was the single biggest mistake he'd ever make, because the next shrilly screamed plea chilled him to the bone:

"_Get it off me! Get it o – NOOOOO!_"

Urseè was immediately full of adrenaline, and he turned his Carbine in the direction of the screams. "Prepare yourself, Jajark," he barked at the Grunt, who fumbled for his weapons in a blind panic. "We have company."

Flight Pad Commander Daroll 'Ariolamm was an Elite with a purpose. He had done his job well since youth, directing air traffic and making sure that incoming craft landed safely and according to the rigid space flight control laws laid down centuries ago. He was prepared for _anything_.

And he always had been, until now.

After hearing the announcements by the colony's guiding Prophet declaring the incoming Flood presence, the Elite had panicked slightly. He had closed off traffic and stared anxiously at the black sky above, waiting for some demon to swoop from the heavens and steal his soul.

But nothing happened for dozens of units, and so he had taken a nap and woken up recently feeling completely refreshed. He had checked his computers, washed himself off and perkily taken out a scroll from his chair storage compartment and calmed himself with the best literature the Covenant had to offer.

Approximately ten units after he digested the first word of the novel, he heard a screeching noise and credited it to a panicked Grunt or Jackal, snorting with contempt.

That's when he looked out the windows of his small cube-shaped control center to the side of Landing Pad 15 and noticed the badly burned human craft – a Pelican, he noted – roosted askew on the metal surface.

Completely cool, calm and every ounce collected, he stood, gathered his plasma rifle, and padded out to the craft, making sure to keep both flanks in sight. Nothing so far…

Then he heard a banging noise from inside the Pelican. Something was desperately beating at the sealed doors of the craft, and he snarled in contempt as he envisioned the human that was doubtlessly trying to escape before his oxygen supply was depleted.

Feeling emboldened, the Elite stepped forward and opened the door to the pelican from the outside simply by blowing it up with a plasma grenade. The explosion was particularly juicy.

Panic then consumed his pride as something wriggling flew forth from the smoke, slammed into his chest, and something sharp penetrated his body suit and skin – the sharp thing tapped his spine, and Daroll 'Ariolamm saw a mob of what looked like reanimated corpses scrambling out from the wreckage and then he blacked out and never woke up again.


End file.
